Slaughterhouse

TWENTY.

He had to admit, it was a beautiful day for a war.

Harry Lee took a few steps away from the parked Humvee, his M4 in his hands. The field he stood in faced a collection of slab-sided concrete structures almost a half mile away. According to the maps, the place was called the Souza-Baranowski Correctional Facility, a maximum security prison that housed Massachusetts’s most violent offenders. While the parking lot was mostly empty, the prison buildings appeared to be secure. Lee had no idea how many criminals were housed there, but for the moment, they did not appear to be a threat.

Lee adjusted his heavy body armor and wiped at the band of sweat beneath the rim of his helmet. The day was hot, sticky, and humid, but he was still alive. He’d take hot and sweaty over cold and dead, any day.

Though being dead was perhaps preferable to becoming a giggling, murderous maniac.

Overhead, helicopters orbited. Behind him, the convoy continued rolling down Route 2, which the road signs called the George W. Stanton Highway. Lee had no idea who Stanton was, but the man probably wouldn’t have been thrilled to know the avenue named in his honor had a great view of a maximum security penitentiary.

Beside him, Staff Sergeant Mike Murphy emerged from the Humvee, accompanied by a pimple-faced soldier named Twohy, their Radio Telephone Operator, or RTO. Both men carried their weapons, and they surveyed the field with cautious eyes.

Foster still manned the M2 machinegun in the Humvee’s cupola.

“Contact,” he said suddenly, bringing the weapon around.

Lee shouldered his M4 and peered through the optical scope mounted to the weapon’s top rail. Stepping out of the trees was a man wearing a blue blazer and boxer shorts. His face was covered in dried blood that had been purposefully applied. He carried what looked to be a spear gun, of all things, and he smiled broadly and waved as he started trotting toward them. Lee could see the man’s shoulders shaking as he laughed.

Lee squeezed off two shots, and the man fell facedown into the field four hundred feet away.

“Good shootin’, sir,” Murphy said casually. “Hope he wasn’t just going to ask for a ride.”

“With a spear gun?” Lee asked.

Murphy shrugged. “True. This being Massachusetts and all, I’m surprised he even had that.” The soldier took a moment to shove a chunk of chaw into his mouth, tucking it behind his lower lip.

A truck rumbled over while a second Humvee pulled past Lee’s vehicle. Both came to a halt. Command Sergeant Major Turner alighted from the Humvee and did a full scan of the area. Several lightfighters jumped out of the truck bed. One of them was considerably larger than the others. Lee sighed. It was the Duke himself—Muldoon.

Murphy did a quick inventory of the new arrivals. “Hey, it’s your old buddy, sir.”

Lee grunted. “Everyone needs a mascot.”

Flanked by two other senior NCOs, Turner walked over to Lee’s position and saluted. Lee returned the gesture.

“Sorry for crashing the party, sir,” Turner said.

“What’s the story, Sergeant Major?” Lee asked.

Turner’s gaze fell on the Klown Lee had capped. “Just providing some additional security, sir. This is kind of an unusual set of circumstances. I want to have some more boots in the area.”

Lee raised an eyebrow. “Unusual circumstances? You mean the fact that infected citizens want to either kill us or infect us?”

Turner gave Lee a hollow look. “I meant unusual in that the commander of the attack helicopter battalion wanted to have a face-to-face with you, sir, as opposed to conducting business over the radio.”

Lee nodded. “Yeah, I guess that is odd.”

“Thought aviators didn’t like to spend any time on the ground,” Murphy said. “I hear they’re afraid some eleven bravo might put ‘em to work.”

“Sounds a lot like you, fah-go,” Foster said, using the corrupted version of “faggot” to refer to his friend standing near the Humvee.

Murphy smirked. “Easy there, Hoss—it’s an equal-opportunity Army now.”

Lee looked over at Turner, who just shook his head and rolled his eyes.

“Soldier, why don’t you step away from the Humvee and take up a tactical position,” Turner said. “And by the way, that’s not just a suggestion.”

“You got it, Sergeant Major,” Murphy said.

“Hey, Murph?” Foster asked.

“What, cupcake?”

“The phrase ‘tactical position’ does not mean bend over and spread ’em,” Foster advised.

“I’ll pass that on to your mom and sister,” Murphy said, moving off to stand thirty feet from the Humvee’s front bumper. He took a knee, the stock of his rifle pulled into his armpit.

Muldoon strolled toward the vehicle, accompanied by a shorter man whose nametape read NUTTER.

“’Sup, Duke?” Murphy asked.

“My johnson,” Muldoon said. He marched past the soldier and advanced toward Lee and the others. “Looks like we’re your new security detail,” he said to Lee.

“Is that so?” Lee asked.

Turner nodded.

“Muldoon’s platoon is severely understrength, down to about a squad. I figured it would be a good idea to pull together a silver bullet element to keep the Klowns off you, sir.”

“It’s a bullshit duty,” Muldoon said.

“Duke, take it easy, man,” Nutter said.

Turner was on Muldoon in an instant, getting right in the bigger man’s face. “What the fuck did you just say?”

Muldoon didn’t bat an eye. “I said, ‘it’s a bullshit duty,’ Sergeant Major. Hearing issues, much?”

Turner grinned. “Son, you are going to get severely fucked up.”

“That’s enough,” Lee said, stepping forward. “Back off. Both of you.”

Neither man moved, so Lee pushed in between them, physically separating the two as Nutter grabbed Muldoon’s pack and pulled him away, and another NCO did the same with Turner. Turner shrugged the guy off and glared up at Muldoon. He was the battalion command sergeant major, and Muldoon, for all his skills at war craft, was making a serious mistake in pushing Turner’s buttons.

“Muldoon, you will stop being a fucking prick,” Lee said. “You’re in the Army, and you’re not some four-star general. You’re a fucking E-5. Your missions get picked for you. When did this not become clear?”

Muldoon looked at Lee and grinned.

Lee wasn’t going to take it. “Got something to add?”

Muldoon looked as though he wanted to say something, then the smile faded from his face, and he shook his head. “No, sir. I’m good to go.”

“Then unless you’re here to get additional direction or make a report, return to your men and make sure they’re squared away,” Turner said. “We’re not going to have this conversation again, Sergeant. You need to be one thousand percent clear on that.”

“I’m clear on it, Sergeant Major,” Muldoon said then turned to Lee. “Anything else, sir?”

“You’re free to go, Sergeant.” Lee returned Muldoon’s salute, and the big sergeant stalked off. Nutter followed, looking back at Lee apologetically.

Lee asked Turner, “What the hell was that about?”

Turner sighed. “Muldoon and I have never gotten along, sir. I apologize for the theatrics, but we have differing philosophies on how a soldier should comport himself in combat.”

“Muldoon always did right by me,” Lee said. “Mostly.”

“He’s smart and has no fear,” Turner said, “but usually not at the same time.”

Another Humvee pulled over, and more soldiers emerged. Lee watched as Major Walker climbed out of the vehicle and looked around, clutching his assault rifle. Walker saw Lee and made a beeline for him.

“How’s it going, Walker?” Lee asked when the major was within earshot.

Walker presented him with a ghost of a smile, and shook his head. “It’s going, and that’s about all I can say about that. You have a second for me, sir?”

“Sure.” Lee looked at Turner. “Hold the fort, Sarmajor.”

“Yes, sir,” Turner replied.

Lee and Walker moved away from the vehicles a bit under the watchful eye of the soldiers providing area security. Lee kicked at a rock in the field, and watched as a grasshopper bounded away.

“So I guess the whole thing about making you a lieutenant colonel kind of blew up in our faces,” Walker said. “Someone talked. Any idea who it might be?”

Lee shook his head. “No. Not really. It’s not important, anyway.”

“In retrospect, it was a dumb thing to do. A lot of the troops aren’t happy with it, and that could cost us,” Walker said.

“Turner’s good to go with it,” Lee said. “We’ll let him square away the rest of the NCOs. We just need to keep the rest of the officers in line.” He looked at Walker, who stood beside him, sweating in the sun. “I own this, Walker. Not you. No one held a gun to my head and told me to assume the rank.”

Walker gave Lee that faint smile again. “Well, holding you at gunpoint was one of my contingency plans.”

Lee snorted and shook his head. “It’s done. I’ll deal with it. Don’t sweat it, Major. I’ll take the heat.” He knew that’s what Walker wanted to hear.

“I’ll take some of the heat with you,” Walker surprised him by saying. “It’s not like I wasn’t involved. You’re not in it alone.”

Lee was impressed. “Thanks.”

“Free of charge.”

Overhead, an Apache dropped out of the formation and descended toward the field. Lee waved Turner over before he pulled his goggles over his eyes as the attack helicopter came in for a landing, its wheels rolling briefly through the grass before coming to a halt in the center of an expanding cloud of dust. The pilot in the front seat unstrapped and pushed open the canopy door on the right side of the cockpit, then he climbed out. He ran across the field to where Lee and Walker waited. It was Major Fleischer, the attack battalion commander. Lee started to salute him—old habits died hard—but he checked himself before his hand raised above waist level. Fleischer saw it anyway, and the action caused him to delay his own salute. He finally did so, snapping his fingers to the rim of his oversized flight helmet.

Lee returned the salute.

“What’s happening, Major?”

“Contact with Drum, sir,” Fleischer said.

Lee was surprised. “What?”

“Yes, sir. Contact with Drum over satcom. Authentication codes checked out. Voice-to-voice with Mountaineer Five.”

Lee frowned. Mountaineer Five was the deputy commanding general of the 10^th Mountain Division, a brigadier general named Salvador. That it was Salvador and not Major General McLaren who was making the call was odd, but the world was suddenly a very odd place.

“You’re kidding,” Turner said. “Sir, are you sure about who you talked to?”

Fleischer looked at Turner and shrugged. “No—I’m not sure. But whoever it was didn’t sound infected. No laughing, but definitely a lot of fighting going on. And they had the right codes, which means the aviation liaison officer is still alive to provide them.”

“Okay, what did they say?” Lee asked.

“Aviation units are to return to Drum as soon as possible,” Fleischer replied. “The post is pretty much overrun. Klowns are everywhere, and they’re well armed. The fort has essentially fallen, but Salvador is leading what’s left. He needs us on station to provide fire support and CAS.”

Lee exchanged a glance with Turner then asked, “So you’ve been ordered to leave the column?”

Fleischer nodded. “Yes, sir. Seems legit. You’ve also been ordered to proceed at full speed to the post and assist in combat operations. From the picture I got, this battalion is the only one left outside of Drum. All units in New York are gone.” The aviator paused. “I can leave a couple of units behind, but we’ll need to pull almost everything we have left out, including Catfish. I was asked to see if you could spare some troops, as well.”

“Troops?”

Fleischer nodded. “For defensive operations, sir.”

Lee considered that. Losing their top cover as well as a platoon of lightfighters would cost the column dearly. The battalion had already taken a pounding, and it had barely made a hundred miles yet. Every refueling stop took an hour, and more often than not, they had to repel attacks at the same time. The only saving grace was they weren’t encountering much infected military any longer, even when they had rolled past Fort Devens, a reserve component training center. The attacks that were mounted against them, while savage and occasionally effective, were no longer backed up by hardware and tactics.

“I advise against sending any troops, sir,” Turner said.

“Why’s that?” Lee asked.

“We have no idea what we’ll run into between here and Drum, sir. We’ve already lost more than a few troops. Reducing our footprint is only going to make us easier to kill.”

“I think I agree with the sergeant major,” Fleischer said. “You’ve got a few hundred miles ahead of you, and you’re going to need every joe you can get. Plus, by the time you get there, Drum might be gone. We have to plan for that.”

“That’s correct, we do,” Lee said. “Once you’re over the horizon, Major, we’ll lose contact with you guys. You’ll be operating without a ground element. You ready for that?”

Fleischer shrugged. “Not really, no. But it’s not like I have much of a choice. As far as I can tell, the order’s legal. And to tell you the truth, my family’s there.” He waved at the waiting Apache. “We need to pull pitch and get out of here. Everyone’s been refueled, so we’re going to make for the airfield at Pittsfield, just east of the border with New York. If we can refuel there, that’ll get us enough range to get to Drum.”

“Roger that,” Lee said. “Anything else for us, Major?”

Fleischer shook his head. “Only this, and then that’s it from me.” He handed Lee a piece of paper.

Lee looked at it. There were several radio frequencies written on it, with call signs for the divisional elements still operational at Drum. Lee nodded, folded the paper, and shoved it into a pocket.

“Give ’em hell,” he told Fleischer.

Fleischer nodded and saluted. “Same to you, sir. Same to you.”

He then turned and ran back to the waiting Apache.

Lee looked at the soldiers around him.

“Okay, let’s get back on the road.”